


The Taltik Affair

by JadeClover



Series: star-hewn colossi [11]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Copious Amounts of Foreshadowing, F/M, Fantasy Mythology, Fantasy Science, Galra Empire, Gen, Gladiatorial combat, Villains Being Evil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11227593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeClover/pseuds/JadeClover
Summary: When a planet approaches the Empire with an unprecedented offer, Haggar seeks to discover the truth of their intent—but it soon becomes apparent that the Talticians harbor more secrets than even she suspected. Between treason and treachery, legends come to life, and far more at stake than anyone could have foreseen, it is not known where the Empire will stand when all the truths of Planet Taltik have been revealed.





	1. titans, in a word: part i

**Author's Note:**

> This, aptly enough, started with the phrase "titans, in a word." Initially, I wasn't even sure it was a plotline I wanted to bother pursuing, but then I started wondering about something: Zarkon and Haggar (my favorite characters) get so little screentime in canon—two minutes an episode, at best—but what would the show look like if it was 20 minutes of those two and two minutes of everyone else? Obviously, this isn't quite an answer to that question, seeing as there are no paladins in sight (this is set long before present-day canon), but in a way, it's my attempt at The Zarkon and Haggar Show.
> 
> When I was plotting this out, I had planned for five somewhat self-contained, episodic chapters, but I apparently underestimated my own plot, because that turned out to mean each chapter would be 20-30k, which is no good for anyone (especially me, who has to edit it). So I've broken each "chapter" into smaller parts; what I think of as "chapter one" will likely span four installments, at least.
> 
> And just warning you ahead of time—this is going to be a very plotty fic. Hopefully I've kept it interesting enough, but we'll see. At this point, I have all four installments of chapter one written out in a very, very rough format and I'm beginning the same process for chapter two, but polishing it up may take a while. I'll try not to leave you hanging for too long between updates.
> 
> Additional stray notes that might be helpful to know:  
> — For the purposes of this fic, cycles and decacycles are units of time specific to the Galra military, corresponding to one and ten days/quintants respectively. A varga is about 81 minutes. A cycle/quintant is 20 vargas, or about 27 hours. Yes, I took the time to figure all this out.  
> — This fic is also a self-indulgent excuse to let my headcanons run rampant, especially the Galra headcanons, and especially-especially the Rumbly Galra Noises, because that's one of my favorites.

**titans, in a word**

**part i**

 

* * *

 

From 0700 to 1000, the Emperor hears reports.

He hears them in the hours before, occasionally—and quite often, after. _Well_ after. It is known, his habit of waking commanders in the middle of the night for their reports, whilst said commanders have their armor on backwards and have forgotten how to speak.

Haggar has no sympathy for them. One must always be prepared.

But it is from 0700 to 1000 that he hears the most pressing of news, the word from the front lines, the reports of rebellions quashed, and from 0700 to 1000, every morning, Haggar hears it with him.

She is a silent presence, for the most part. Assignments, troop movements—there is little need for input here. This is her emperor's purview, not hers. Her specialty lies in the details—the technology of the enemy, the allocation of resources, the places where opportunities would otherwise be missed had not the combined forces of the Empire's might and magic, strategy and science aligned just so.

They work better as a team. This is evidenced thus:

Commander Traxa is on one knee before the throne, his head bowed. "Sire, one of my crew has intercepted a transmission from a group of rebels, indicating that they are based within the Taumirion System. My ship is equipped with top-notch sensor arrays—if we go to the system, it will be short work to find and destroy them."

A bold claim—and a wholly inaccurate one. From her place beside the throne, she speaks.

"Commander Traxa, your ship is equipped with PRJ-17 arrays."

The significance of this is clearly lost on him, so she continues.

"The PRJ-17 arrays are finely tuned for long-range scanning, hence their use in deep-space scouting vessels. Your sensors would be unable to detect the rebels' base from anywhere within the system."

Traxa glances toward the Emperor; she cannot see her lord's expression, but the commander must find it unfavorable. He quickly ducks his head again.

The Emperor speaks:

"Commander, I would expect you to know your own ship. I suggest you reacquaint yourself with it immediately. Moreover, I cannot have my soldiers chasing after rumors simply because they want the glory of the rebels' defeat for themselves."

( _He is accurate, of course. The commanders have grown transparent of late, as though they think their greed and ambition is not visible to the Emperor._ )

"You will proceed to the Ceer Cluster as ordered, and you will complete your mission. And once that is complete, you will conduct a survey of the Cluster for type-E Aurixal anomalies."

( _He remembers—of course he does—the ongoing project to study such phenomena. It has been on hold for long—too long—but the results will be worth it, if only she can find the point of breakthrough._ )

( _Quintessence is on the line. And power—_ much _power._ )

"Yes, sire." The commander's voice has gone flat with defeat.

"The Taumirion System mission will be given to a more capable ship. Submit all relevant reports to Intelligence and depart for the Cluster within the cycle."

"Yes, sire." Now, a vaguely sullen tone.

"You are dismissed."

The commander stands and proceeds from the throne room in what, to her eyes, is an interesting test of just how much outright sulking the Emperor will tolerate before it becomes insubordination.

As it turns out, a fair bit. He is in a forgiving mood today.

( _More likely, his mind is occupied elsewhere. It is not like him to be so lenient._ ) She casts him a sideways glance. He has summoned a holo-screen in front of him; the next report, it appears, will be from the field.

The transmission connects and the screen expands.

"Commander Karval."

"Sire." The commander appears to have been waiting. He stands on the bridge, fist clasped respectfully over his chest. "I have news to report from Planet Taltik."

_Taltik._ She does not know the name. But then, she should not expect to. Karval, despite his youth, is a front-line commander; he brings new worlds into the fold of the Empire, planets on which no data yet exists.

"Proceed."

"Sire, my ship entered planetary orbit late last cycle, and within the varga the local Talticians sought contact. They announced their intent to negotiate a full surrender, conditional on one point—that we allow them fight for us."

Her first thought? That they are _impudent_ , to think the Empire would allow them _anything_. And her second? That she cannot recall another planet ever having done such—offering no resistance, no naive overtures of friendship. Simply surrendering. Fully. Perhaps it has happened before, but never on this condition, this exceedingly _odd_ condition, that they be allowed to fight for the Galra...

( _And in truth, they should not have been able to detect Karval's ship in orbit to begin with._ )

A faint, low rumble from the Emperor, contemplative but laced with suspicion. "This is... _unprecedented_. Have they defined any terms?"

"The terms they have given are vague but simple. They ask only for their lives and the means to live them, and in return they will give us everything else."

In an undertone, so the transmission will not pick it up, she murmurs, "Sire, this is likely a trap."

Commander Karval adds, "They have made requests for ' _formal negotiations_ ' in order to organize the details."

The Emperor's eyes narrow, though his tone remains almost conversational. "We do not negotiate with those beneath us, Commander, or have you forgotten?"

"No, sire, I have not. But the Talticians specialize in advanced biotechnology that could prove a valuable asset, should we obtain it. And when they weaponize it, as they have, they could make themselves a troublesome foe... or a formidable ally. It is my duty to inform you of this offer, my lord, if not to take it."

The Emperor laces his fingers before him, a brief moment of contemplation; the commander is left with nothing to do but wait. Beside the throne, she keeps her silence. She has already said her piece, and her lord needs no reminder. It is up to him to decide what to do.

He lowers his hands. "Commander Karval, you will find out everything there is to know about the Talticians and their offer. Why they make it, what they hope to gain... If this is a plan to deceive us, you will discover it. Report back to me within the decacycle."

"Yes, my lord. _Vrepit sa_."

The connection terminates and the screen winks out.

Wordlessly, the Emperor cants his head toward her, a silent question of her opinion.

Somehow, she had not expected to be consulted—( _though, why not?_ )—but it takes only moments to gather her thoughts. "It is wise to assume deception. They offer much, but they would not do so unless they stood to gain even more."

"Karval will uncover the truth, and one way or another, we will bring Planet Taltik under our control."

Her eyes narrow. "Karval is young, and inexperienced..."

"Yes, but he is thorough and quick. A boon in this situation."

( _He must be, if the Emperor is to praise him._ )

"If their offer is genuine—what do you intend to do?"

A sound of satisfaction, almost, sharp-edged and keen. "We will take them for everything they have, whether or not they thank us for it. But if we can secure their loyalty? It may be... _interesting,_ to see what will come of that."

 

* * *

 

She brushes her hair aside where it threatens to fall into her workspace. A pause, a short sigh; she readjusts herself and continues. Bending close, with small, careful movements, she slowly loosens the screws from the casing. Whatever planet this came from ( _and truly, she no longer cares which_ ), their hardware components are wholly incompatible with Galran tools. She has been forced to use a makeshift device swiped from one of the surgical suites in order to dismantle it.

Her tool slips once more. A deep breath, a leash on her temper.

She tries again.

Her workstation is bathed in light, a stark island when all around her is darkness. To her side looms the cavernous space of the storage halls, lit only by the pale-pink glow of quintessence. At her back, the hallway to the examination rooms trails into shadow—all but the guide-lights are dimmed for the night cycle. No patients need see where they walk, and her druids operate beyond sight. Though, this late at night, even the druids have found somewhere else to be.

Nestled in the crook of the hallway and the chamber, her workstation would, in the day cycle, be inundated with passersby, but at night it is entirely undisturbed. All the better for her work. This project—though hardly much of a project, better described as a passing fancy—has been on hold for months. She is no stranger to such necessary deferrals, but after this long, even the smallest projects begin to nag at her.

 An electronic chirp breaks the silence. Her tool does not so much slip as jerk to a halt in her hand; lips thinning, she lowers it and reaches for her comms. ( _The unit is normally strapped to her wrist, out of sight, but tonight she had set it aside, perhaps in anticipation of this very event._ )

She taps it. The call connects, a shimmering screen expanding above the unit.

"Sire."

It is late; she had not expected him to be in the throne room still. Though, knowing his habits, this should not be surprising—he has worked straight through the night on many occasions. Bending her head, she retrieves her tool from the table, lowers it to the device, and begins dismantling the plating.

"I am forwarding you a set of files," says her lord. "Karval has managed to assemble intelligence concerning the Talticians, and I desire your input. Rulat is preparing a report for the morning."

The casing separates with a click, revealing a cache of wires... and several microprocessors. Interesting. She sets the tool aside.

"Very well. I will review them shortly."

"Allow time. There are several videos."

And with that, the call terminates.

Her next tool is in hand, but for a long moment she makes no move to use it. _Video?_ She was not expecting video. A handful of written reports, perhaps, but video?

Perhaps Karval was more thorough than she expected.

Nudging the dismantled mechanism aside, she calls up the files. Indeed, there are written reports—dozens of them. But how? It cannot have been more than three cycles.

Her brows knit together. She navigates to the first video file and opens it—a shaky feed reveals a round, sunlit office.

And here, she pauses it. This is Taltik, obviously. And the video? By all appearances, recorded via head-mounted camera. ( _Crude, but ingenious, if the Talticians were not expecting it._ )

She restarts it from the beginning, though not even a single tick had played. The camera-bearer steps into the office, the view tilting downward to reveal a hunched, sleek-furred alien, its blade-like claws clasped in front of it. It blinks small, dark eyes.

_"My thanks for this meeting, lieutenant,"_ says the Taltician.

A shift, as though the camera's wearer has adjusted his stance. _"Thank my commander,"_ says the lieutenant. _"He's the one who ordered a full investigation. This is your chance, yaal—impress us."_

She leans closer to the screen.

_"But of course, lieutenant."_ The Taltician dips their head. _"Is there anything I can show you? Tell you?"_

Such easy acquiescence, but the lieutenant is not swayed. A hand waves in front of the camera, loose and causal. _"Nah,"_ he says, _"this one's on you. You say you're worth our time? Then_ prove _it."_

The challenge is clear. Here the alien stills, its long claws twining slowly, ceaselessly, until at last they come to a halt. _"I intend to,"_ it says. _"Perhaps I will show you our records? So that you may see for yourself our abilities?"_

It is a good enough suggestion, she supposes, though it is doubtful that numbers and lists will impress the lieutenant. Is that what those many written reports contain? Anything and everything gleaned from this venture of Karval's?

She expects the video might cut out here, but it does not. Instead, it shows the entire walk through the Talticians' facility, through tall, glass-walled towers and the closed walkways between. The lieutenant is careful to let the camera linger on long, uninterrupted views of the metropolis below each time they pass from one tower to the next.

From time to time, he asks a question, to which the Taltician, peering over its shoulder, provides a full and courteous answer.

_"What's that?"_ the lieutenant asks, eyeing a structure below.

The Taltician looks where he points. _"Hm? That is our arena."_

A faintly curious rumble. _"Gladiatorial?"_

_"In part, yes."_

Curled so far forward she begins worrying her thumbnail between her teeth ( _and then realizes and forces herself to stop_ ), she spares a vague thought of approval for the lieutenant's dedication in hounding answers.

_"What else?"_ he asks, and sounds genuinely interested.

A pause.

_"Lieutenant,"_ says the Taltician, _"my people are warriors at heart and engineers by trade, but so too are we artists. That arena is where we let our passions play out together—making art out of combat."_ A small curl of a laugh. _"More so than a good fight is already art, anyway."_

The lieutenant draws alongside his escort and manages to sound almost believably earnest. _"I don't understand."_

Here the Taltician peers up, its dark eyes guileless. _"Performances, lieutenant. Theatre, almost. Stories in which the outcome of the tale is decided by the outcome of a fight."_ They blink, quirking their head. _"After all, is that not how real stories are resolved?"_

A tap on the screen and the video pauses. She stands, stretches momentarily. Then she bends and begins methodically returning her tools to their proper storage.

The half-dismantled device and its various parts are taken to a labeled storage container, halfway across the massive chamber. When she returns, she settles herself into her chair and sets an alarm for 0600. Will this take that long? Likely not, but she prefers to be prepared.

A flick of magic darkens the overhead lamp, plunging her into darkness. She turns to the screen, the only light remaining, and lets the video resume. And as she does, already a flurry of thoughts and analyses forming in her mind, a plan for a long night ahead, she queues up the other five to play after it.

 

* * *

 

She has the videos watched by morning, the written reports first skimmed, then scoured. A coiled energy has taken root in her, a suspicion that will not rest, the warring desires to pursue a puzzle to its very end and to draw back and let well enough lie. It has her on edge, and her voice, she suspects as she speaks with her emperor in low tones, reflects that.

He does not comment, though he surely detects it. Instead he asks after a project of hers, and she lets herself be distracted, lets herself follow the conversation into distant waters. It is not easy; the words gather on her tongue, but she cannot bring up the true topic of this meeting—not yet.

First, she must hear what Rulat has to say.

Their Chief Intelligence Officer appears precisely as scheduled, at 0700 exactly. The last of their conversation trails into silence as he arrives. He stands rail-stiff, as always, his armor perfectly polished, and he hardly looks as though he worked through the night on the Emperor's orders. ( _Which he_ had _—she realized this last night when she was halfway through the videos. He would not have had time to review them and prepare a report otherwise._ )

He approaches the throne and drops to one knee. "Sire."

"Commander Rulat. What is your analysis of the reports from Taltik?"

( _The Emperor wastes no time with unnecessary words; she is discovering a new appreciation for this._ )

Rulat keeps his head low as he speaks. "Sire, both the videos and written accounts indicate a technologically-advanced society with leanings toward a warrior-focused mentality. The demonstration in Video Three suggests that our assessments are accurate—their weapons, engineering, and sciences all center around extremely powerful biotechnology. With analysis from the Engineering department, I have estimated their technology to be of a very similar level and purpose as the Kezt-char's, but with considerably more versatility."

She has to give him credit—she did not expect anyone today to know who the Kezt-char were, let alone the significance of their technology. Perhaps the commander has done his research after all.

She speaks up: "And what of their defenses?"

Their city had looked so breakable, all glass towers and walkways. Could it be they were unprepared for invasion? Or did they have some greater weapon hidden beneath the surface, some trick to deploy, a trap to play?

"Their city is not build to withstand bombardment, but given the seismic patterns of the area, its foundations are likely strong. Additionally, analysis indicates that not only is advanced shielding technology possible—it is highly likely."

"Via nanotechnology?" She allows a moment to slip into the science of it—she trusts Rulat will keep up.

He nods. "And bio-linked diffuser cells, if the extrapolation is accurate."

At that, her eyes narrow. _The perfect place for a trap. Lure them in and they will not get out._

"Tell me this—" says the Emperor. "What of their offer? Do you detect deception?"

Still kneeling, the commander stiffens. ( _Reading people has never been his strong point._ ) "All written reports concur that no overt treachery was detected," he says. "The Talticians seemed willing, almost eager, to submit to us. As for the videos... I could detect no signs of dishonesty, though the nuances of their communication are likely, as expected, alien."

( _A clever answer, as always—but it settles nothing._ )

A sound of contemplation comes from the Emperor, high in his chest. Now he addresses her: "Haggar, what do you say?

She turns to him, hands curled into fists at her sides. "Sire, I would not trust the Talticians with _anything_."

It comes out, perhaps, a shade too emphatic. Her lord's head turns a bare fraction of a degree. Rulat's amber eyes widen.

She just thinks of the fourth video. The alien had glanced at the camera— _had known it was there_ —but had said nothing.

_Why?_

"They are a cunning, intelligent people," she continues. "I would be surprised if they did not have some trick waiting for us."

"And this trick—it is worth the loss of easy access to their technology and resources?"

"It could be _in_ the technology, for all we know for certain"—she bows her head—"but I cannot say."

She does not need to look—she knows somehow, by sound and sense alone, when he has made his decision.

"Rulat."

The commander stiffens more, if that was somehow possible, and lifts his head.

"You are dismissed."

"My lord." He stands, bows deeply, and proceeds from the throne room.

Watching Rulat go, the Emperor says to her, "Contact Karval and have him arrange a meeting with the Talticians' chief authority."

She inclines her head.

Softer now, he adds, "This will play out, one way or another. If they do mean to cross us, I trust you will discover when and how."

A deeper bow of her head, this one more eager and sharp-edged with determination. "Yes, sire. I intend to."

This is a puzzle now, its first pieces just barely arrayed, and she is made for puzzles—in this, she will not fail.

 

* * *

 

The meeting with the Grand Yaal of Taltik occurs close to midday by Taltik's time and at approximately 0030 by Imperial Chronometry Standard—by all accounts, in the dead of night. This is not out of any great consideration for the Talticians, but rather ( _Haggar suspects_ ) in order to give the Emperor something occupy himself with during the night cycle.

She stands beside the throne, a silent presence, as Commander Karval wrangles the connection. Apparently the Talticians' technology is loathe to interface with theirs. She lets her fingers fidget while she waits, lets her thoughts drift on to other matters. The delay is tedious, yes, but she has more than enough with which to keep herself occupied ( _unlike her lord, whom she can detect growing more tense by the minute_ ).

At 0041 a hologram of Commander Karval appears, fist clasped respectfully at his chest but otherwise looking as young and vaguely startled as always. "I apologize for the delay, my lord. I am putting the connection through now."

He disappears, and in several ticks is replaced by a Taltician even Haggar can tell is ancient. Its back is so bent that its long, spiraling whiskers nearly brush the floor, and where blazes and spots defined other Talticians' faces, this one's has bled pure white. Its fur has taken on a silvery tint, and its claws, where they twine in front of it, shake visibly. But Haggar makes no mistake—despite its age, the Taltician leader's eyes are sharp and keen.

"Yaal Enalta."

Her emperor sits easy on the throne, straight-backed as always but by all appearances relaxed. She had missed when he'd learned the Taltician's name ( _from Karval, most likely_ ), but it is like her lord to be gracious ( _when it is grace that's called for, and poise, not power and displays of brute force. He was a king, once, before he was an emperor_ ).

The yaal bows low, dipping to their knees, quivering as though their aged bones might snap at any moment. "Emperor. I thank you for this audience."

She can envision her lord's eyes narrowing. "Do not thank me yet, yaal," he warns. "By the end of the day, your planet will be ours. It is up to you the manner in which this occurs."

"Of course, Emperor." The yaal levers themself back to their feet, keeping their head low. "It is my privilege to serve. What would you ask of me?"

"Spare me your platitudes."

( _Privately, she concurs. Even for one so soon to be divested of power, this is the mien of a coward, not a leader. Perhaps her lord will simply decide to be done with these creatures after all._ )

"You offer me much," says the Emperor, "but to what gain? Time and again, my people have asked you, and you respond with honeyed words and promises. That is _politics_. I have no time for politics. Tell me now and tell me truthfully, yaal—you offer much. _Why?_ "

The yaal's claws twine, in and out, over and around, a ceaseless motion like cogs in a machine. Its eyes rove. She knows it is not unintelligent; it knows what a poorly-worded answer will cost—what it will cost its entire people.

Then, the Taltician's gaze lands on her, just for a moment. It is difficult to tell, between the hologram distortion and the dark of its eyes, but she makes no mistake.

The creature's claws still.

"Emperor," it says, "my people do not travel far from home, but we have heard tales of your advance throughout the galaxy. We knew you would come soon for Planet Taltik, so we asked ourselves, 'What can we do?' We could fight, yes, but not long enough nor hard enough to preserve our freedom. And if we should try? What would the cost be? We would fail, and in doing so, lose countless lives. But—what if there was another way? If we choose not to forestall the inevitable, but to accept it? Welcome it? We will lose no lives to the Galra. We will lose our supplies, yes, and our resources, the food we grow and the machines we build—but we would lose that in any other outcome. If, by making ourselves useful, we can buy back enough to survive, is that not acceptable? It is in the nature of Talticians to fight, but so too is it our nature to see reason. If we can fight, but fight _for_ the winning side, is that not better? If we can preserve our lives, our planet, our cultures, by trading one way of life for another, is that not a path worth taking? My council and I deliberated, and we found this to be true. This is the will of the Talticians: If we fight, we will fight to survive. If we win, it will not be by forcing hopeless endeavors. And if we are to gain? We know what we stand to lose, Emperor, and managing to keep that would be gain enough."

Silence.

It is a strikingly honest speech—almost. But even now she can see the places where it is too smoothed, too _perfect_. For one, where is the wholly-expected hatred of the Galra? Not even an undertone—glossed over to appeal to Galran ears, no doubt. It paints an enticing picture indeed, even as it lays bare the heart of the matter—the Emperor's question, answered fully, but still, to her ears, laced with the careful sweetness of words meant to deceive.

( _A good speech, yes, but can it be trusted?_ )

In the moments that follow, she is torn between keeping her eyes locked onto the yaal and trying to determine her lord's reaction. The Taltician's claws have begun to twine again, very slowly, and their gaze falls on her but this time does not linger.

The silence stretches on.

And then, at last, the Emperor unlaces his fingers and sets his hands on the arms of his throne—decisive. Declared with all the authority of his title: "We will discuss the terms of your planet's surrender."

Despite itself, Haggar thinks, the Taltician's shoulders slump. Relief. _Foolish creature. You are not safe._

But something within her has plummeted as well; so dashed, a hope she had not known she harbored, that her emperor would dismiss the Talticians as weaklings, or worse, as upstarts. That he would give them no foothold, no chance but to surrender as victims. But no—they _interest_ him. Enough so that he would ignore the potential for sabotage, just to see what could be done with an entire civilization that willingly makes themselves the Empire's puppets.

Very well. He has already given her recourse—he has given her his trust, that she will find and reveal any treachery on the part of the Talticians. If they are treasonous, if they are plotting—( _which they are, if even one of her screaming instincts proves true_ )—then she will discover it.

The Emperor will do as he wills—he always does—but in this, she is meant to advise. And advise she will— _with evidence_. Privately, she vows it now—soon she will have Planet Taltik's every secret laid bare.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the meeting lasts five vargas. The result? The bones and muscles of a contract, barely set in place.

A _"contract,"_ she calls it, when in reality, it is far more one-sided. More like her emperor has rewritten Planet Taltik's every rule of operation. The yaal came prepared with figures—they will be checked before the surrender is finalized, of course—but assuming they hold, forty percent of the planet's food production now belongs to the Galra. A plethora of new taxes have been instated. The Talticians' biotech, engineering, and weapons manufacturing industries have been given new imperial supervisors, and several new mines are to begin operation shortly, all yield going directly to the Empire, including several in locations that the yaal seemed reluctant to acquiesce to. Culturally sensitive land, perhaps? Habitats of endangered organisms? It matters not. She knew her lord was specifically pushing here, testing to see the limits of what the Talticians would accept. Other than a polite reminder on the exact minimum amount of farmland the population needed to survive, by all accounts there were no limits.

That was... _promising_. Yes. It seems they were honest in their intent for a full surrender, rather than trying to weasel out additional privileges and allowances where they could. She could almost begin to trust them, after this. But she still remembers the video. A sample size of several Talticians, all observed within their own territory? From that, she is confident that their every move is planned and their every plan laced with layers upon layers. And when she considers this... How much have they seen of this one? Just the surface, perhaps?

There is more. The Talticians, in a way, remind her too much of herself for there not to be more.

But for now, just for now, she will let the matter lie. There is only, what? Two vargas until the start of the morning shift? Until then, no more thoughts of them.

( _If only it was that easy._ )

What matters more, she tells herself, almost sullenly if she is being honest, is that the meeting lasted _five vargas_. She is well used to being in attendance for five vargas' worth of meetings, but not for meetings lasting five entire vargas. ( _She is not quite sure what the difference is, but there is one._ ) It is exhausting, though perhaps that is just a more natural tiredness creeping up on her. It _has_ been nearly two decacycles since she slept, after all.

Unfortunately, there is no time for rest tonight. A few early risers have already been seen in the halls, slipping out of the way as she and her emperor walk the familiar route to his quarters. As they go, they both remain silent; she suspects her lord has grown tired of speaking by now. _She_ has grown tired of speaking, despite the fact that she had not for nearly the entire meeting.

When they are at last ensconced in the privacy of his rooms, her lord veers for the lounge and seats himself upon his favorite couch, the tension she knew he harbored finally visible now that there is none but her to see. His gaze, as ever, gravitates toward the viewport and the familiar stars beyond, his mouth set in a thin line. Likewise, she takes up her usual position on the couch opposite and pulls her knees to her chest.

Neither of them have yet found cause to speak, but that is fine.

And she _is_ tired—she realizes it now. Between the comfortable heat of the room—one of the only places not kept in chill to save power consumption—and the novelty of being seated... yes, she _is_ tired, and she is aware of it. _A single day._ That is all. Then she sleeps.

Her emperor breaks the silence: "Why has this not happened before?"

She lifts her head. "Has what not happened, sire?"

"This. A planet freely offering servitude in exchange for a modicum of freedom."

"We've left them little more power than we would allow any conquered people," she must point out.

"Yes, but _they_ do not know that." He tilts his head, lifting his gaze further, staring out at the span of stars. ( _He owns them all, and by the look on his face, he is remembering that._ ) "Their reasoning was sound, or enough so for those in their position. Why have others not attempted the same?"

"Most creatures have lived under their own power, by their own ways, for millennia. Few could truly conceive of change. And, too, it seems a part of their nature to resist. But the Talticians are capable of seeing opportunity, and even if it is a route they would not prefer, they would choose to consider it." She frowns. "They are... anomalous, in that regard."

In his next breath, a faint rumble from the chest; he is contemplating. "You still distrust them."

"Yes. You do not?"

"I know what I have seen."

But on this, he will say no more. Not a clear answer, then. He bides his time.

"Do you still intend to investigate?" he asks.

"I do."

"Have Rulat and his agents assist you. But first, there is another matter to discuss. The rebels in Denzaga Sector have been a thorn in our side for too long."

This, she will not dispute. They may have at last located the rebels' stronghold—( _and it was not in the Taumirion System as Traxa so boldly claimed_ )—but thus far it has proven impossible to actually _get inside_. Or to simply blow the base to smithereens, as would, in all honesty, be preferred.

The situation is a siege, at present. None may get in, none may get out, though she has been told the rebels' shields are slowly weakening. It is only a matter of time, truly. Years of hounding these turncoats and traitors will finally come to end.

The Emperor's face has twisted into a scowl, a rare show of expression. "Recently," he tells her, annoyance verging on frustration adding an edge to his voice, "their shielding has increased tenfold, and none have been able to explain to me _how_."

Oh.

Well, that _does_ change things, doesn't it?

Her brows knit together, and she rests her folded arms on her knees. _Tenfold... And if that is the true figure, not merely hyperbole... But_ how?

As if reading her thoughts, he casts a glance in her direction. "That is why I am giving this project to you. Find a way around the shields, or find a way _through_ them—it does not matter. But I want that base _breached_."

Half her mind is still lost in theories and calculations. "Yes, sire."

Analysis of enemy technology is Engineering's purview—why have they not yet gotten results? It seems, then, that her morning will be spent rooting out the relevant files from wherever they have ended up, her initial plans of conferring with Rulat now deferred—indefinitely. ( _It is a bitter thought, that the matter of the Talticians will continue apace, with neither her knowledge nor her input, but needs must. Perhaps she can work her original plans in between obligations._ )

( _Or perhaps not. Like all things, even she has her limits._ )

Their conference appears to be at an end. Her lord stands, pausing to subtly stretch stiff muscles, and strides from the lounge. She lingers, indulging her thoughts, but only until the realization that she is in actual danger of falling asleep on the Emperor's couch. And her lord, she knows, would leave her there to sleep through the entire day.

She tips herself forward and trails after him. It is not hard to find where he went, but in the doorway to his bedchamber, she pauses. He is within, unfastening the catches on his armor; already, the chestpiece is discarded. The sight, unassuming and almost mundane, evidence ( _not that she needs it_ ) that her emperor is a person and not an automaton, brings much the same realization to herself.

Her eyes find the nearest chronometer—it is 0565. Five doboshes until the morning shift. That and a varga until _her_ shift begins.

One varga is never as much time as it seems.

How best to announce that she is leaving? She considers it, but truly, it is of no import. Without a word, she slips away. Unseen? Perhaps, perhaps not. Her lord is always more perceptive than he may appear.

No matter. She starts her journey toward the more central levels of the ship. It takes until the end of the corridor ( _and a helpful recollection of just_ how long _it will take to walk to her quarters_ ) for her to lose patience. A flicker of magic, and she vanishes from the hallway.

She has much to do and little time to prepare.


	2. titans, in a word: part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't focus quite as much on the Talticians themselves as I'd like, but it does lay some important groundwork for future chapters.
> 
> Also, a warning: This chapter is what earns the Graphic Depictions of Violence tag. In the second scene, the one with the arena, it starts out relatively mild but gets rapidly more intense toward the end. Expect graphic injury and graphic death. If this is something you're sensitive to, you can skip to the next scene with very little, if anything, lost.

**titans, in a word**   
**part ii**   
  


* * *

  
  
The problem of the rebels' shields becomes a far greater project than anticipated. First comes the task of acquiring all known information on the matter, made nearly impossible by the disorganization that has settled into the engineering department. They claim there had been a recent shake-up in their internal ranks, with many of the relevant files lost in the shuffle. Haggar subtly threatens them with another shake-up and, in a moment of frustration, sets her druids to the task. They are effective, as ever, and soon she has the appropriate files sorted into her private server.  
  
Then comes the analysis. The shields? They are _shields,_ simply put. There are only so many ways to block a particle beam or prevent an incursion. But within those methods, there are a thousand nearly-identical variations in technology that make determining the exact nature of the barrier almost impossible, especially from millions of light-years away with only limited reports from the field.  
  
The Galra Empire prefers to employ a singular approach when dealing with the shields of their enemies—simply put, blasting them until they disintegrate. She tends to prefer methods with a somewhat greater degree of finesse, but this gives her a second path of recourse: She could find a way to disable or bypass the shields, or she could simply design a weapon strong enough to destroy them.  
  
Her creative mind itches for exercise; there is a clear preference here. No current weapon of the Empire has been able to breach those shields, and perhaps that makes the prospect more appealing. Nevertheless, she is not one to limit her options. She assigns her subordinate engineers no shortage of analyses, on the off chance that they may uncover some flaw in the defenses' design that would make sabotage a likelier option.  
  
The engineer's reports are delivered to her computer daily, alongside reports from Rulat. On that front, that is the best she could do. The Chief Intelligence Officer is conducting his own investigation into the Talticians and has been instructed to forward her all relevant results, as well as whatever Commander Karval delivers from the field.  
  
She takes the time to read it, when she can. Karval reports about securing locations and receiving shipments and the Talticians' seemingly endless cooperation ( _which, as ever, remains suspicious_ ). Rulat's reports are more in-depth, more tailored to a wary mind. They describe an instigator of dissent among the populace, whom the Taltician government quietly made disappear. And apparently, the yaals have been holding private councils amongst themselves. Apparently they have been placating their people with assurances and platitudes, and apparently, they do have shields that span the breadth of their city—( _bio-linked diffuser cells, just as he had said_ )—but they have just given the Empire the access codes...  
  
Quite truly, she has had enough of shields.  
  
( _That is what makes the decision for her, in the end. With a tense curl to her shoulders, she closes out of the report, pulls open a holographic modeler, and begins to design a weapon._ )  
  


* * *

  
  
Reaching out, she adjusts the crystal. It resonates with its four counterparts and a tension releases she did not know she carried.  
  
Magic relaxes her in a way nothing else ever can. The subtle flow of energy between the crystals sings, as if it is her own quintessence that has been set in order. The angles of it are satisfying in a way that cannot be described, perfect in a sense beyond the merely mathematical.  
  
Perhaps that is why she opted for the use of magic in this design.  
  
She is so used to being called upon to integrate weapons into larger constructs that when given the task to build a device that needs only _destroy,_ and not move or defend or cooperate in a network, the bounds of her creativity can stretch. More innovative uses of magic in the Empire have long been a goal of hers, and this is an opportunity. Her device is ambitious, yes—almost deceptively so—but it can find further use than simply blasting in the door of a rebel stronghold. For this claim, her lord has given her far more time to develop it. Despite his well-hidden impatience, she knows this is no great setback. The rebels will not be leaving, after all. A blockade of warships has seen to that.  
  
She levitates the weapon unit—necessary, as the core of it is too dense and heavy to lift—and rolls it within her grasp. It is only one of five, and a scaled-down prototype at that. The past two decacycles have seen a flurry of innovation and design, the rapid realization of an idea from concept to reality. Several components had to be sourced from her external labs for their rarity, but her efforts have at last proven their worth. The prototype will soon be ready for testing.  
  
A chime from her computer unit neatly shatters her thoughts.  
  
In the time since she began this project, she has delved into it headlong, more taken with the thrill of invention than she first anticipated, and the Talticians have more often than not been far from her mind. She knows her lord is still in frequent contact with Karval, instructing him on how to proceed planetside, and so too is Rulat involved, stepping in where she cannot. This is likely a message from him, the delivery of her daily updates on the matter.  
  
It is not. It is from the Emperor.  
  
A time and a location—that is all. The gladiatorial arena, 1600 that night.  
  
She closes out of the message, a frown on her lips. The arena... it is not accurate to say she dislikes it. Or perhaps she does, but for no true reason. It is no distaste for the bloody sport, such as some lesser beings might hold. Disinterest, more like. On occasion, a fighter will rise from the dust and catch her eye, but more often than not, it is simply warriors beating each other to death. Little finesse, little to capture her mind.  
  
But her lord is different. He sees an art to it, even when she cannot. And he enjoys her presence at the matches for reasons she does not understand but, all the same, is disinclined to question, so she will attend. There are times when he asks her to the arena for a purpose, because he thinks a certain fighter will interest her. This is likely not one of those times ( _and said fighters are rarely as interesting as he expects_ ) but it is nonetheless a pleasant thought to consider.  
  
She makes considerable progress on the prototype in the handful of vargas that remain to her. By the time the day shift has ended, she has finished full calibration on three of the five weapon units and has started on a fourth. At 1520, she levitates them into their storage casings, orders a druid to clean up her tools, and seeks out her emperor.  
  
He is not difficult to find; she needs only close her eyes and let her mind be drawn to the brightest point on the ship. Between not only the power lines burning with refined quintessence, but also the individual sparks of every living creature nearby, it is _bright,_ but invariably, he is brighter, and she can find him.  
  
He is on the bridge, and there he remains until she arrives; likely, he was waiting for her. He begins to walk as she draws alongside him, his mantle flowing around him, trusting that she will follow, and she does.  
  
The prisoners' cells and, by necessity, the arena itself are housed almost as far from the command center as possible, part of a design intended to minimize the damage a prisoner could do in the unlikely event of an escape. It will take some time to get there, even with the ship's internal transport systems.  
  
As they walk, they do not speak. They make a habit of not discussing business in places where others might overhear, in order to keep sensitive information from being leaked to those who ought not to have it. Except, tonight, her lord must decide it is not strictly necessary to keep this information secure—the halls are entirely deserted, and it will soon be revealed to all regardless.  
  
"Several Talticians fight tonight," he tells her.  
  
Her brows draw together. "Talticians?"  
  
"Indeed." Something vaguely satisfied reverberates in the word. "I have challenged them to prove their strength, and they sent us five warriors. They claim these are their greatest. We shall see."  
  
She frowns but does not break stride. There is a quickness to her step, necessary when matching her emperor's long stride. The result of this is that her legs tire and her knees begin to ache, but the benefit is almost worth it: They reach the arena in far less time than she would have on her own.  
  
They enter via the passage to the Emperor's own private viewing platform, the noise hitting her like a wall. Her eyes narrow, her ears pinning back beneath her hood. As they emerge onto the platform, a different wave ripples through the roar of the crowd. There is a general shift of sound and bodies as the Galra rise; it is customary for them to stand, fists clasped to their chests, until the Emperor is seated. But before his throne, he lingers a moment, head held high. His gaze is fixed somewhere at the far end of the arena, as though he is watching for something.  
  
The moment passes, and he takes his seat.  
  
The sound rushes back twofold as she takes her place to the left of the throne. Her lord laces his fingers before him, lost in thoughts of something or other, and she does not see fit to disturb him. Instead, she settles for filtering out the sheer volume of voices and echoes as she waits for the evening to commence.  
  
At the top of the varga, the loudspeaker comes alive with opening remarks. Whichever Galra was allowed near the microphone tonight is doing his best to drum up the crowd's enthusiasm. Little is actually audible to her, though perhaps she catches " _...From the planet Taltik—_ "  
  
A hush settles over the crowd, just for a moment, as the chime heralds the first bout. Then screams and eager cheers take over again as the first two combatants are let into the arena.  
  
The audience, off-duty soldiers all, are wildly exuberant about the fights. A great many have money riding on this, she thinks. It is well known that gambling is not permitting within the military, but it is even better known that the Emperor does not care. So long as the gambling enterprises do not grow out of control and need to be _trimmed,_ he finds more important matters to concern himself with than what his soldiers do with their GAC, especially when off-duty in a system in which shore leave does not exist.  
  
Down on the arena floor, the two combatants are circling one another, swords in hand. One is a Galra, the other an alien Haggar is far too disinterested to identify. Whatever it is, it is bigger and stronger, though the Galra looks to be faster and likely cleverer.  
  
This match is not to the death; none of the early fights are. They are bouts between lesser combatants, challenging one another in hopes of climbing even a single bracket in the rankings.  
  
( _Later in the evening, those who challenge the champion will fight for the right to survive._ )  
  
The Galra wins his match. Fists raised in the air, still clutching his sword, he is led away to the sound of cheers. The Galra fighters are always more popular, despite that they are little better than prisoners now that they have signed their lives to the arena.  
  
The next pair of fighters is announced.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
These two dance and parry across the field, too evenly matched to make for a good show. The fight is won by mere accident, as one trips and falls and finds an opportunistic blade at their neck.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
A bad start, a fumbled lunge—this fight is over in moments.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
And then the next one, and then the next. _Chime. Chime._  
  
But then her lord sits up straighter, his eyes fixed on something. She blinks and follows his gaze to the far side of the arena floor.  
  
Sleek blue fur, a white stripe; hunched posture, claws twining before it. The Taltician steps blinking from the passage and accepts the standard-issue sword from the sentry. Craning its neck, it peers up into the stands.  
  
From the other passage comes its opponent, a long and lanky alien covered with spines. The crowd is its usual riot of cries and jeers, but on the Emperor's platform, a kind of silence has fallen.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
The match begins.  
  
Almost too fast to follow, the spiny alien rushes forward. The Taltician only has time to roll out of the way and bring its blade up— _clang!_ —to block what could otherwise have been a deadly blow. ( _These matches are not to the death, nominally, but it is known that if an accident should occur, it will not result in penalty._ )  
  
Parry, another roll to the side, a fierce attempt at attack—this is not the movement of one unaccustomed to combat. But is it enough? Will it _be_ enough? The other alien is taller, faster, and fights with an obvious thirst for blood, but they both move with such speed and agility that even the crowd quiets as it tries to track them.  
  
It is an engaging fight, but it does not last. The match is brought to an end by the kind of vicious move the arena is known for—an elbow to the face, and the Taltician stumbles. The flat of its blade comes around—it is blocked, and the taller alien uses a swipe of its thorny tail to upset its opponent. Another lash, and a line of red opens on the Taltician's arm, seeping into its fur.  
  
The spiny alien presses its advantage and the Taltician falls. A blade to its throat ensures it does not attempt to rise.  
  
The crowd cheers for the victor, but to her, it is almost disappointing.  
  
A glance to her right. Her lord's posture is unreadable, but on a subtler level, if she peers into the shades of his quintessence—he is not pleased, but nor is he displeased, either. Perhaps he did not expect more from the Talticians to begin with. Perhaps she did, without her realizing it.  
  
( _Maybe she was waiting for something to prove her wrong about them. Maybe she was waiting for something to prove her_ right.)  
  
The victory is announced and the combatants led from the field, the Taltician clutching at its bloodied arm. Her mind still lingers, though, remains in heat of the match. She replays it as best she can with the blur of combat meeting the blur of memory, and in broad strokes, she attempts to judge it. Are the Talticians the warrior race they claim to be? Indeterminable—how can one sample definitively prove a pattern? But how quick are they, how strong, when compared to others? How would they fare against a Galra? ( _And do they ever mean to try?_ )  
  
The next bout passes almost unnoticed, and the one after that, but her thoughts jolt to a halt when another Taltician takes the field. This one is a light shade of green, and it stands with its feet apart, flexing its grip on the sword in its hand. Its opponent, a burly, four-armed fighter, enters from the opposite side.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
The Taltician charges. Such ferocity from one so small—for the barest moment, the big fighter pauses, then roars and raises its blade.  
  
In the back of her mind, Haggar has begun to build a profile of the species' combat abilities. The first Taltician makes up the lower end of the range—slow, but capable of solid blocks—while this one, much quicker and more spirited, fills in valuable missing data. One disadvantage she sees is that this one tires much quicker. What had once been a flurry of strikes devolves into something far more measured, almost cautious.  
  
The Taltician relies on bursts of speed to position itself where its opponent is not prepared to defend. In practice, though, this tactic rarely works. The alien's four arms give it a wide range of coverage, and its skin is so thick that it barely flinches from what blows do land. The Taltician falls back, circling its opponent, easily parrying and dashing out of reach when the other fighter tries to close. They settle into a rhythm—forward, block, retreat, repeat. It is a tense, coiled rhythm, but slow. _Very_ slow.  
  
The crowd begins to boo.  
  
Throwing back his head, the four-armed fighter roars. ( _She remembers this one now. He likes to play the crowd. Their disapproval must enrage him._ )  
  
He throws himself forward with a burst of speed, and the Taltician struggles to get clear in time. But as it scrambles to the side, Haggar has a sudden inkling—there is strategy to this, isn't there?  
  
In desperation, almost, though it is merely desperation to hit something, the four-armed brute lunges again, and this time the Taltician strikes. They pivot clear of their opponent's blade and leap, getting the necessary height, and drive the pommel of their sword into the back of their opponent's neck.  
  
The effect is instant. He staggers, sways, dizzy and disoriented, and the Taltician's feet touch the ground only for an instant, because then they are pushing off and leaping, using their own slight weight to tip their opponent to the ground. They hook his sword and fling it from his slackened grip, then stand on the downed fighter's back, the tip of their blade against his neck.  
  
The announcer calls the match.  
  
She does not even hear the roar of the crowd, so focused is she on the small, green-furred alien below, but when the change happens, even she cannot miss it, the wave of energy that floods through the stands, the rise of voices, the hum of excitement.  
  
The last fighters are led from the field, and she turns to the Emperor. "How many Talticians are set to fight tonight?"  
  
He has laced his fingers before him, a pose that in this light speaks almost of satisfaction, of slow, curling anticipation. "Three."  
  
The standard matches are over. The Galra in the stands scream their adulation as the champion takes the field.  
  
There is something strange about the reigning champion of the arena, whomever or whatever they may be. It is the one time _any_ creature, not just a Galra, can have power, can have pride. Prisoners can and have risen from the dust before, shook off their origins to become valuable to all arena-goers. There is something about the blood-sport that can let a Galra see an alien as an equal, perhaps because blood is a universal language. _Face me,_ it says. _Dare to challenge me._  
  
On the arena floor, hierarchy is decided by violence alone. For the watching Galra, it is a freedom from the bounds of civilized life. For the champion themself, it is the best they can hope for, because whether prisoner or volunteer, once one's life is signed to the arena, it can never be taken back.  
  
But Haggar knows, with the wisdom of many, many years, that champions come and go. This one is not even noteworthy. He is as most champions are—large, brutish, the only thing capable of crushing all who oppose him while still remaining hale enough to fight again. It is his weapon that sets him apart—she remembers the last dozen champions solely by what they wielded.  
  
All others fight with the standard blade, but it is the purview of the champion to wield a signature weapon. At times, a custom weapon, even, if she is feeling generous enough to allow the testing of one of her prototypes. But this one? He has received no great honor. His crackling energy whip is of old design, if given minor improvements for the showiness of the arena. The champion snaps it against the ground, purple sparks spitting and stuttering in the air.  
  
First, the champion will deal with this evening's crop of prisoners, one by one. Then he will receive challengers.  
  
As the crowd murmurs, the passage opens and a small, shivering alien is pushed in. It pounds on the door as it shuts, likely begging to be let back in, but it is no use. It will not be saved. Lives given to the arena are never taken back.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
Then, to the alien's bare, pathetic credit, it climbs to its feet and picks up its sword. It stands facing the approaching champion for one moment, two—( _the champion takes his time_ )—but then its nerve fails and it bolts, running for the cover of one of the pillars, running for its life.  
  
 _Weakling. That will not save you._  
  
The champion may decide which lives to spare—the match, after all, needs only to be fought to incapacitation to declare a victory. When one has clawed one's way to the top, one has earned the right to reject kills that are beneath them. ( _The useless ones, who only cower. It is not worth bothering with them._ )  
  
But this champion, who prowls like a predator, grinning, cracking his whip with every other step—he makes a point to kill them all.  
  
If combat between two evenly-matched individuals proves tiresome, then this effortless, bloody slaughter is completely mind-numbing. Her interest wanes again, and wanes further, until the next half-dozen chimes are barely registered. Her thoughts return to the last two Talticians' fights. Her lord had said there would be three who fought tonight, and that can only mean one thing.  
  
The culling of the prisoners comes to an abrupt end. The champion had performed it almost leisurely—saving his strength, perhaps, because he knew he would be facing a challenger tonight.  
  
At the far end of the arena, the passage opens once more and the last Taltician steps into the light. Utterly diminutive against the champion's might, this one's fur is scarlet red. Its claws are moving strangely, flexing. They are too long; it cannot figure out how to hold the sword properly. But it is not given the time to figure it out.  
  
 _Chime._  
  
The champion lunges forward. The Taltician veers to the side, barely keeping its grip on the sword, and bolts. Buying time? It covers ground surprisingly fast on such short legs, disappearing around one of the arena's pillars. Around it goes, circling, and circling again, until the champion, following eagerly, discovers the trick—his whip is all but useless when he cannot see his opponent and has no straight-line path of attack.  
  
He whirls around in the opposite direction, clearly hoping to meet the Taltician head on, but his opponent is quicker than that. The Taltician darts away, out into the open floor of the arena. This prevents a short, bloody end to the match, but out here there are no defenses. What will it do?  
  
The champion thunders mere steps behind, his whip snapping out. A glance over its shoulder means the Taltician sees it coming; it leaps over the lash meant to snare its legs and rolls out of the way of a second attack. Leaping, rolling, dodging—that becomes the tactic. It is too nimble to be caught, but as a consequence, it is left without a single chance to attack.  
  
This must be taking a toll. At last, the Taltician staggers back out of reach, hunched over even farther, its tail whipping slowly behind it.  
  
At least it has finally figured out how to grip its weapon.  
  
Something in the champion's posture has gone loose and confident, as though he is assured of victory now, with his opponent kept at bay and clearly growing exhausted. At this point, it is only a matter of time.  
  
All around the arena, there is a chant in his favor.  
  
The champion raises the whip above his head and bellows, lunging forward to finish it—  
  
Except, the Taltician is no longer there.  
  
Haggar blinks. The champion draws up short, spinning around, and if the yells from the stands are any indication, they all had likewise been so focused on the posturing champion that the Taltician's wild flight had gone unnoticed. It is almost halfway to the center of the arena by now.  
  
...Running? Fleeing? Is _that_ what it is doing? It is such an act of cowardice that it offends her on the deepest level... but she cannot truly believe that is what it is at heart. This one has a plan. They always have a plan.  
  
The champion grips his whip and starts after the Taltician. It cannot quite sustain the uncharacteristic speed that had gotten it out of harm's way, but with the potent combination of adrenaline, a second wind, and its life on the line, it is making a strong attempt. The champion, though, with his long legs, is capable of eating up the distance between them—the Taltician's efforts will not be enough.  
  
The moment it is within reach of the champion's whip, the Taltician veers to the side and takes several steps in another direction. The whip kicks up sparks where its tail had been only moments before. When the lash returns to catch them on a rebound, they have already chosen another course and bolted away.  
  
Just two lashes later, it becomes clear what the Taltician's tactic is—staying alive simply by being too unpredictable to catch. Then, in the next moments, as it darts abruptly _into_ reach of the whip, and then even closer while the champion spins to track it, another strategy becomes apparent:  
  
Whips are long-range weapons. They are completely useless up close.  
  
The handle of the champion's whip has an armored hand-guard, which is likely all that saves his life. The blow from the Taltician's sword would have certainly divested him of his weapon, perhaps even severed the entire hand. As it is, the champion is left with a bundle of scarlet fury at his front and the hand-guard his only shield. He is backing up, as though that will do any good, his movements almost panicked. _Ah, hubris._ He has never let anyone get close enough for this before.  
  
The champion leans back and drives a vicious kick into the Taltician's chest, sending it sprawling back into the dust. It scrambles to its feet and clears the spot where the whip lands half an instant later, sparks spitting. Bringing its sword to bear, the Taltician lunges in again.  
  
The pattern of random movement continues; at times it darts under the champion's arm to attack from a new angle, only to return from where it came once the champion has spun to follow. It is careful never to become predictable.  
  
At this range, the Taltician's sword finally has the chance for blood. Long red gashes are opening wherever it can reach. The champion swats out with his free hand—a miss.  
  
Then the Taltician hooks the edge of its blade below the champion's knee and does one of its twisting, darting moves, drawing a line through skin and muscle from the knee around to the back of the ankle. With a roar that turns into something like a scream, the champion falls to the ground, his leg giving way. This Taltician pulls a similar trick as the other, swinging the flat of its blade on the back of its opponent's head, stunning him and sending him sprawling face-first into the dust.  
  
It scampers up onto the fallen champion's back. The match is won, the champion defeated.  
  
But that is not enough. A fight to incapacitation is still a victory, and it can always be left as such, but by tradition, these matches are played for higher stakes. The crowd has its expectations. So easily swayed to an underdog, they are chanting, _"Kill him! Kill him!"_  
  
The Taltician's eyes rove over the stands, from one side to the other. Its gaze passes over the Emperor's platform and, for a moment, lingers.  
  
( _What will you do, Taltician?_ )  
  
Then they toss their sword to one side, rear back, and drive their claws deep into the once-champion's back.  
  
The resultant cheer shakes the very floor of the arena.  
  


* * *

  
  
She loosens her grip, and the weapon unit tugs itself out of her grasp. It wheels through the air, arcing until it settles into a rhythm with three of its fellows. A nod to the druid to her left, and the fifth one joins them.  
  
Waiting patiently, Rulat has folded his arms behind him. The holo-screen showing him and his office stutters briefly, skipping. Perhaps she should not be having this call in the testing chamber, where so many intertwining magics offer interference, but no matter. The inconvenience is little, and far greater is the opportunity afforded by multitasking. She will likely be performing adjustments to the device all day, and as Chief Intelligence Officer, Rulat will be otherwise occupied.  
  
She will take her updates on the planet Taltik where she can get them.  
  
With a hand extended, thin arcs of energy trace from her fingertips to the five dancing, wheeling weapon components. Their movement patterns are as predicted. Their resonances...? Stable.  
  
She tilts her head the barest degree toward the screen. "Go on."  
  
Rulat clears his throat. "The five primary arenas have announced tournaments to crown replacement champions. Apparently they intend to take advantage of the opportunity for a spectacle. Still no word on the performances of their former champions, however."  
  
Interesting. Along the line, someone has decided the Talticians need not know the fates of the fighters they sent to the Imperial arena. Was it a Galra who stymied it, or someone in the Taltician government?  
  
The news, were it to reach them, would likely be of their interest—one of their own, taking the crown of the Imperial champion. The Taltician victor—Namjal, his name is; she has heard it in the halls—has already faced and put down three challengers in two nights.  
  
Would this surprise the Taltician populace, were they to hear it? She wonders.  
  
"Have you compiled the data I ordered?"  
  
"Yes. Arena reports from the past five Taltician orbital cycles, an analysis of their fighters' training programs, availability of combat training to the public, several articles translated from Taltikla about the cultural aspects of their gladiatorial combat..." A pause. "I have prepared a full report."  
  
"Have it to me by the end of the shift."  
  
"Of course." Rulat dips his head.  
  
Her hand is still extended, small shifts of her fingers coaxing movement out of the spinning units, but her mind, for the moment, is elsewhere—on Planet Taltik. The time has come for her to make a move.  
  
"Rulat."  
  
"Yes, Haggar?"  
  
( _This is one thing she appreciates about him—he knows better than to dredge up any of her titles for the sake of respect._ )  
  
"Have you head word of any interesting flora or fauna on the planet? Anything with properties that may have use to the Empire?"  
  
"I... cannot say. My reports have mainly focused on social climate and logistical details."  
  
"The technology, then. Surely it must have its uses."  
  
"Yes, of course. I have forwarded several packets of information to Engineering, and I know they are receiving direct communication from our agents on Taltik. The Emperor has prioritized energy efficiency and weapons among their efforts."  
  
She purses her lips. "Very well."  
  
The engineering department is still in dire need of a restructuring; it is unlikely they will have made valuable use of their assets. But nevertheless, a plan is beginning to form.  
  
First, though—the weapon. She can do nothing until it is complete.  
  
Holding up her hand to forestall Rulat's next comment, she gives her attending druids the command to begin the test. At once, the five weapon units zag into a tight, focused pattern, rotating slowly outward, only the occasional expected hitches in their movement as the energy primes itself. Jagged bolts pull toward the center of the array, building into a glowing lattice of power, and—  
  
She is not sure what alerts her. A stray bolt, she thinks, firing wildly over even the druids' heads. She has a shield up in the same instant, and a fraction of a tick later the energy expands and breaks free, sending a wave of electricity and heat rushing past her. Rulat's screen dissipates in the blast, and when the air clears, she sees the tell-tale shimmer of her druids' own shields through the haze.  
  
The druids are all intact, though one appears to be slightly singed. She cannot say the same for the weapon. The five components lie scattered on the floor, the malfunctioning unit surrounded by the glittering remains of its crystal array.  
  
Her hands curl into fists at her sides.  
  
Quite clearly, it will be more than a quintant before she can move on from this project. So be it, then. With a wave of her hand, she summons back the holographic screen. It reforms, reconnects, and Rulat appears with a look of mild alarm on his face.  
  
"Consider that query regarding notable lifeforms to be an ongoing one, and extend it to the geological and the energy-based as well. Do _not_ waste my time with anything less."  
  
Whatever Rulat was going to say, he thinks better of it, snapping his jaw shut after a pause. "Yes, Haggar. I will prepare a report."  
  
Another wave of her hand and the screen vanishes. Stalking forward, she draws near the mangled remains of Unit 3, her gaze narrow. The entire construct is unsalvageable. It will have to be rebuilt from scratch.  
  
First, though, she will need to find the cause of this error and check the remaining four for instabilities. All this before the first test. All this for a prototype.  
  
She narrows her eyes, unable to fully restrain a sigh. There are times when her work truly grates on her, and this is one of them.  
  


* * *

  
  
In eight more quintants, the prototype is complete, but she allows an additional two for testing. She cannot shake the nagging worry that one hidden error promises a second—( _as she simply does not wish to have to rebuild it—_ again)—but instead of catastrophic failure, she finds instead nearly a dozen new places to streamline and increase efficiency, and when she locks in the project details at the end of the decacycle, she finds herself... satisfied, if not confident. ( _Though there is, at minimum, a bare degree of confidence here. She would not advance her work if she did not think it at least_ likely _to succeed._ )  
  
The prototype is transported to an assembly yard, and with one of her own research vessels, the _Clarus_ , in attendance, construction on the full-scale weapon begins. For the twenty-two quintants' production time, she occupies herself with the projects that have slipped from her mind—the matter of the Aurixal anomalies, for one. She opens up the old charts, compiles the data from recent ( _if limited_ ) scans, but it only serves to confirm the obvious—she is still missing the perfect example required to truly understand the things.  
  
Regardless of failure in that endeavor, by the time the completed weapon is due for testing, she has laid to rest a backlog of projects, the ones that were too small to prioritize yet far too large to dismiss. It is just as well. If she considers her future plans, a cleared schedule will likely be welcome should the test prove successful.  
  
( _And how she hopes it is. She has had enough of this weapon._ )  
  
The test, as many important things do, occurs late at night. At 1920, she finds herself standing with her emperor in a closed communications suite, one of the only places capable of providing the myriad simultaneous views of the event she requires. A lone screen in the suite's array is active, and it shows the viewport of a warship and the back of its commander as he stands waiting, his hands clasped behind him.  
  
The warship, the _Extant_ , slips out of hyperspace, and the research vessel _Clarus_ follows. They arrive as scheduled in the system R-49-1, home to only a small, dull star and a single orbiting planetoid.  
  
The system is uninhabited, uninteresting; surveys had even declared the planetoid unfit for mining. Tonight, however, the system will finally prove its use—the lone R-49-1a is currently slated for removal.  
  
That is the true potential of the weapon she designed—a multipurpose targeted destroyer, lacking the versatility and ease of use of traditional ion cannons but capable of far more concentrated destruction ( _and a higher degree of finesse when delicate operations are required_ ). All this is achieved at a fraction of the energy consumption, although there is the drawback of required a fully secured environment to operate in. ( _The weapon is... rather fragile while in use. She will admit this._ )  
  
Tonight's test is meant to gauge the weapon's accuracy and function, as well as measure its effectiveness at the height of its power. ( _Small tests will only produce small results, and she will never be satisfied with that. This_ will _work as intended, or she_ will _wear away its flaws until it does._ )  
  
The weapon's five units have been transported in a rush-job mounting on the _Extant_. If the test should prove successful, and if the Emperor should so approve, the warship will receive proper mountings and be granted the weapon as a permanent addition. Her next task, at that point, will be to design an interface system capable of controlling the weapon from the bridge. That can wait, for now—the Emperor wants the rebels dealt with immediately, and she concurs. For the immediate future, two druids in attendance will be enough to operate and maintain the weapon, though she knows how the commanders do hate to work with them.  
  
Another of the communication hub's screens comes alive, this one segmented into several panels. In the largest one appears the masked visage of a druid. "Haggar," he says. "We are in position."  
  
She steps forward, tilting her face upward and scanning the read-outs. Her emperor lingers behind; he came to witness this test just as she did, but not to lead—to watch.  
  
"Begin alignment."  
  
Units 1 through 5 disengage from their holdings, spiraling out into open space, the readings on the screen coming to life. ( _These full units are several dozen times larger than their prototypes, and though they seem almost miniature next to the warship, their mass is so great that the_ Extant _will require adjustments to its hyperdrive protocols once the units become a permanent addition to the outer hull. All in due time, though. All in due time._ )  
  
Video feeds wink into existence, one by one, a wall of information and angles in almost a complete half-circle around her. The _Clarus_ has deployed camera drones at her insistence, and displayed from multiple viewpoints are the five units, assembling in formation before the targeted planetoid. Slowly, they begin to rotate in a pattern that has now become familiar, entering into a stable phase and maintaining it.  
  
She scans the monitors' readouts again. No unexpected anomalies.  
  
Good. _Good._  
  
"Charge the weapon."  
  
At her command, arcs of energy pull toward the center of the cluster, building and building... ( _There are no malfunctions in these components; she made certain of it. Any errors are solely the fault of the construction yard._ ) An orb of brilliant energy emerges, growing, almost bright enough to sear the eyes as it hangs suspended in space between the five units feeding it.  
  
"Weapon charged," the druid reports.  
  
With no hesitation—( _as letting this much energy linger is a very unwise thing_ )—she orders, "Fire the weapon."  
  
A moment, almost an entire tick, in which the energy seems to dim into nothingness—and then the five units spin in place, rotate as one, and the point of charge explodes into light. She seeks out the video feed offering the widest view just in time to see the bolt slam into the planetoid, drilling deep with only the initial strike.  
  
"Sustain the charge!" she calls out. Her druids obey, and the force of the beam remains steady, a constant flow of light and power.  
  
As she watches, the destruction of R-49-1a quickens, its rocky surface turning molten, thick cracks webbing out, the smaller, shattered chunks beginning to separate.  
  
 _That is enough._  
  
"Cease power."  
  
The arcs of light maintaining the bolt flicker out, and within moments the weapon exhausts its charge, the energy fizzling into nothingness. Bits of the planetoid have begun to drift free from its rent shell.   
  
She eyes the readouts as they cycle back toward dormancy. ( _It certainly_ performed _as expected. But the details..._ ) "Have we met the targets?"  
  
"All targets have been reached and surpassed."  
  
A small, sharp-edged smile. There is always a sort of vicious satisfaction to it, a rush, when a creation of hers not only succeeds but succeeds _admirably_. Though, she should not be so quick—there are still the rebels to be taken care of. This weapon will be useless if it cannot pierce their shields.  
  
"Return the units to their mounting and compile all telemetric results. I want them delivered to me within the varga."  
  
"Yes, Haggar." The druids bows his head and disappears from view. One by one, the myriad screens return to darkness.  
  
The sound of footfalls, and she feels her lord's presence beside her. "This will more than annihilate those rebels' shields. You have done well, Haggar."  
  
A small narrowing of her eyes, pleased but she will not admit it. "It is premature to offer praise. Their shields are not gone yet."  
  
Nevertheless, there is still something warm in his tone. "I have faith. We will strike tomorrow—be ready."  
  


* * *

  
  
In the end, she is not present for the attack on the rebels' base. A creeping exhaustion means she must spend the night asleep, ruing this as she drifts off and waking with bitterness first thing. Though, she does not allow it to trouble her for long. Needs must, and all. One cannot eschew sleep altogether.  
  
She always arrives early in the throne room, but this morning she arrives earlier. The hallways are still thick with the beginning of the morning shift when she enters, but the silence in the throne room is so complete she can hear the echo of her own footsteps. The Emperor is already present in his throne, a holo-screen hovering before him; he draws his claws across it, unhurried.  
  
She takes her place at his side. "Sire."  
  
Long experience has taught her to tell when he is listening. Perhaps it is a shift in his quintessence, perhaps simply the subtle effect of having known him for millennia, but regardless, she continues.  
  
"The rebels—did our attack on their base succeed?"  
  
A pause, and here there is a slow, edged rumble from deep within his chest. It is not a sound of contentment. Her brows draw together.  
  
"Yes," he says.  
  
So there is more. She waits.  
  
"...The attack was a success. Their shields were breached with little effort, their base destroyed." In the corner of her vision, his eyes narrow to violet slits. His hand falls from the screen. "All but a handful perished with it. Two ships managed to slip away—I know not what with."  
  
And here, the root of the matter. It _troubles_ him.  
  
"These rebels are not a _new_ problem," he continues. "They spread like parasites, and it is foolish to assume that those who fled will not regroup, reassemble, recruit." A brief, dark twist in the field of his quintessence. "But so too is it foolish to dwell on it."  
  
Foolish to dwell, perhaps, but no great crime. He may be Emperor, but even he is allowed this luxury now and again.  
  
"They will be found, lord"—( _this is no manufactured confidence_ )—"and they will be exterminated. Whether now, or in time, they will soon run out of places to hide and then we will finish them. None can resist." This is _fact_.  
  
He lifts his head to her, only slightly, eyes lidding as he thinks on this. "Yes," is all he says in the end, but he returns his hand to the screen. The matter has been settled, whatever brief moment of frustration chased away. ( _She is glad for this._ )  
  
But she did not come early simply to inquire about the rebels. They were a part of it, yes, but now she has confirmed that there is nothing more she can do on the matter. No more weapons to build. She is free at last to return to the lingering matter of the Talticians.  
  
They have not yet made any move against the Empire, but that does not mean they do not intend to. She had told her lord of her intent to investigate them, and that has not changed, but in the past cycles a more fully-formed plan of action has taken shape in her mind.  
  
"I have made plans to continue my investigation of the Talticians," she begins, "and, in the process, better asses their resources."  
  
A noise of questioning from her emperor, a small, casual sound he only permits himself because they are alone. He does not look away from his screen, but he listens.  
  
"I plan to travel to Taltik myself. I will leave within the decacycle."  
  
Now he does pause, turning his head fully toward her. "I did not think you trusted them so, that you would willingly place yourself within their grasp."  
  
"I do not." She raises her chin. "But nor will I ignore an opportunity out of cowardice."  
  
Harsh words. Too harsh, perhaps; his eyes narrow. But he forgives, he always forgives.  
  
"What is it you hope to discover?"  
  
"All that can be found. I have reviewed the reports on their biotechnology, and it is... interesting. Promising. I will tell them I have come to assess it, but in truth..." She narrows her eyes, an almost-smile. "Even five doboshes on their planet will tell me more than Commander Karval's every report. I plan to witness their behavior firsthand, to judge it. It is far easier to detect deception in person. And from there? I will pick up leads and follow them. I am certain I will not leave without discovering much of interest."  
  
"How long do you intend to stay?"  
  
"Three quintants, if all goes to plan."  
  
"Hm," he says. "Very well."  
  
In the silence that follows, he turns back to his work and she to hers. His claws draw once again over the screen, but beside the throne, she merely lowers her head, lets her fingers fidget together, and _thinks_. There are many preparations to be made, and within the confines of her own mind, she begins them.

**Author's Note:**

> Come to talk me on [tumblr](jade-clover.tumblr.com)! Also, sometimes I talk about my writing there, so if you want really obscure references to things in this fic's future, that's the place to be!


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